Chapter 11 – Shadows of War
"Every time I see Lord Elias use magic," the old village chief said, eyes full of quiet admiration, "it feels nothing short of miraculous."
Elias floated pumpkins effortlessly through the air, one by one landing neatly on the transport cart. The sun hung low over the golden fields, and for a moment, peace felt almost real.
But then the old man's gaze shifted northward. His expression darkened.
"It's been five months since the war began."
He sighed heavily. "Thanks to your protection, our village remains untouched. But up north... who knows how many have lost their homes by now?"
He paused, his voice trembling with memory.
"I remember my ancestors fled here from the southern continent five centuries ago. Their cities—once grand—became ruins, swallowed by endless wars."
"…Five hundred years ago, already destroyed," Elias murmured.
He recalled the vast river plains they had once traveled through—three months spent there for a ridiculous project: researching roach-based magic.
His mind conjured the image of Serie's beautiful form cutting through enemies in a frenzy just outside the city walls.
A terrible, bloody time… yet somehow, one of the lighter memories in his immortal life.
How absurd this world was—civilizations built over millennia, erased in mere years under the shadow of war.
---
On their way back, the old chief stayed silent for a long time. His brows furrowed deeply, as though wrestling with a decision. Finally, he spoke.
"Lord Elias, I have a request."
Elias didn't look up. "Speak."
"Since the war began, many refugees have fled near the Holy City. Though our village is small, we wish to help them—if you would aid us in expanding our borders."
Elias tilted his head slightly, the faintest frown crossing his face.
"…I'm afraid I don't understand."
The chief blinked, startled. "You… don't want to help them? Is something wrong?"
"No," Elias said flatly.
"I just don't see what the refugees from the north have to do with us."
His eyes narrowed. "Tell me, old man—what made you decide this?"
The chief faltered, taken aback by the question. "Well… it's simply the most basic thing for us humans—compassion."
"Compassion?" Elias repeated. "What is that?"
The chief stared blankly. "It's… uh… for example, when you see a dead rabbit, wouldn't you think—'if only I could bring it back to life'?"
"No."
Elias's answer was immediate and firm.
"I'd be wondering whether to braise it in spice or roast it with herbs before the meat goes cold."
The chief: （ರ_ರ）
"Lord Elias… you truly are unique."
Elias didn't reply. His gaze turned distant, thoughtful.
Compassion…
Was that another one of those "human" things he had long forgotten?
Finally, he exhaled softly. "Fine. I don't really understand it, but I have no objections. If we're to shelter outsiders, we'll need housing. I'll handle the lumber."
The chief's face brightened, and together they began discussing the expansion plans as the evening mist rolled in over the fields.
---
Three Thousand Years Before the Mythical era
Dekai Region – Shviel Mountains
Snow howled across the mountainside, burying everything in white. Aivis trudged forward, breath forming small clouds in the freezing air.
"I can't see anywhere to stop," he muttered, squinting into the storm. "Serie… is she alright back there?"
Serie: «(✘_✘)»
Elias slung the feverish elf over his shoulder, smirking lightly. "She'll live. It's just a fever."
"This isn't a joke!" Aivis snapped. "If we underestimate this winter, she will die!"
Elias shrugged. "She's lived for centuries. If she dies now, it's practically a ceremonial farewell."
"Don't say that!"
Gritting his teeth, Aivis scanned the slopes. "We should build a cabin—a place to wait out the storm!"
Elias's expression remained cold and dismissive. "Unnecessary. I'll just shape the snow into a shelter. It'll hold until she recovers."
Aivis hesitated. "…And the people who come after us? What about them?"
Elias blinked, then the words slipped from him as if by instinct.
"Even if those who come later die here… what business is it of ours?"
Aivis stared in disbelief; the deep furrows of his brow took on a grave severity.
"Elias, that's called compassion for others' suffering — remember?"
—Ugh.
A flash of pain stabbed Elias's mind, and for a moment something stirred in the fog of his memories.
"Compassion, huh…" he muttered, then shook himself awake. "All right. I'll fell the trees — at least we'll have a shelter by tonight."
He hoisted Serie up and headed down the slope toward the forest. By midnight the little cabin stood finished: a ring of smoke rising from the hearth, Serie asleep inside, while Elias and Aivis sat musing beside the fire.
"Elias," Aivis asked gently, "can you truly not imagine another's suffering?"
Elias watched the flames. "I can picture the scene and the cause of suffering. But my own feelings about it… I don't really know."
"I see." Aivis thought for a beat, then suggested, "Try imagining it the other way around — a thousand years from now. Travelers cross the Shviel Range in a blizzard; they are freezing and terrified, and then they find the hut you built. How joyous would they be? Can you picture their relief?"
"Perhaps…" Elias conceded.
At dawn, Elias woke to the sight of Serie's rapid-cast runes whirling over his brow. "You wretched demon, did you say my dying would be a blessing?!" she shrieked.
—Boom!!!
A loud crack split the morning: Aivis crawled out from under a pile of rotten timber, dusted himself off, and shook his head at the wreckage. "We'll rebuild it properly," he decided.
— — —
Three thousand years later, Elias jolted awake from a nightmare. The last image burned into him was Serie's face raining spells down onto his forehead.
"An angry old elf is terrifying…" he muttered. "Shouldn't have teased her back then."
Still — thanks to Aivis's patience, the notion of compassion felt faintly familiar now.
That afternoon, at the edge of the village wood, Elias raised a hand. In the blink that followed, dozens of thick trunks were sheared halfway through as if by an invisible blade. He drew water from the nearby river, compressed it with magic into razor-sharp jets, and cut the logs into neat planks. He bound the timber with animated vines.
He inhaled. The coppery tang of blood — a scent he'd noticed earlier — crawled along the air behind him.
"Using high-speed air to fell trees and high-pressure water to mill them… human mages certainly have their tricks," said a dry voice.
Elias turned slowly and found three demons standing before him.
They hadn't seen through his disguise? Pathetic. Not worth much of his time.
He lifted the planks on a gust and started to walk away.
"What? He dares ignore us!" one snarled. "That human brat — barely twenty years of cultivation. We've been elder demons for fifty years!"
"Perfect — we'll cut off his head, bring it to the Demon King's army, and maybe we'll get a promotion to general!" another boasted.
They advanced to surround him. Elias stopped, smiled — a cold, small sound. "Cut off my head, you say?"
—Whoosh.
In an instant, all three were split apart — heads severed, bodies turning to ash, their faces frozen in shocked incomprehension.